


90-Degree Bend

by OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink



Series: Downforce Universe [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Formula 1 AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7364842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink/pseuds/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John meets a man who might be the one to convince him to rejoin the world again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	90-Degree Bend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ninjaninaiii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/gifts).



There had been others who’d asked him to drive for their teams, but after the death of Jess, John Reese couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore. Everything in his life seemed to fall apart, whether from his temper or his neglect. Alcoholism had been the alarming direction his life headed and soon homelessness to follow. There were plenty who had assumed he was dead somewhere and honestly, John thought it was better that way.

“Mr Reese, can you hear me?”

John woke slowly, as the voice had been gentle, something that didn’t immediately raise his defenses. He was quite uncomfortable when he saw three men standing about seven feet away from where he’d been sleeping; one of them was slight and wore glasses, but the other two were clearly muscle of some sort. John had gotten into trouble with some of the local organised crime a few months back, but he’d thought that had he’d gotten away without being seen.

There was a ripple of murmurs and movement through the encampment, others who’d been woken or who’d already been awake and were now nervous at the strangers in their midst.

“Who are you?” John asked warily, wishing he could grab for the knife blade he carried in his coat without alerting any of the three men that he was armed.

The man looked familiar and John didn’t like it, even if he didn’t find him threatening. The two larger men looked more uncomfortable to be around the squalor and filth of this world than over any concern of violence.

“You may call me Mr Finch.” A brown paper bag with the McDonald’s logo was offered out to him. “Here, breakfast. You need it.”

John was doubting the organised crime angle now—those people wouldn’t play nicely, they’d have just killed or beaten him by now. And while the other homeless in the warehouse were still watching in apprehension, there was more curiosity than fear, which was a good sign. If these men had exhibited any sign of hostility or danger, they would have scattered and raised the alarm. 

Clearly this Mr Finch wanted something from him, because no one brought gifts without wanting something in return, ut the man looked easy enough to take, possibly giving John enough time to run before the men flanking him could get to him. He took the bag and dug out one of the breakfast sandwiches, bitting out a large chunk. Many years ago, he’d filmed a commercial for McDonald’s egg mcmuffins, his first sponsorship. The irony was not lost to him. The food was hot and greasy, satisfying in a way many things had not been recently. He glanced around and saw that there the others in the warehouse who were still staring at him, anxious and hungry, wondering if a trap had been laid for him. He had the same fears, but food was powerful motivator to buy a favour from a man who did not have the luxury of eating regularly.

“What do you want from me?” John asked, once he had swallowed down half of the sandwich.

“Why don’t we talk about this out in the sunlight?” When John hesitated and glanced at the two very strong men, Finch assured him, “They’re not here for you, but for me.”

John stood, still cautious how he moved around the slight man, but followed slowly when Finch turned around and walked back towards the main entrance of the warehouse. The other homeless had hidden themselves, given themselves enough distance in the event the large men were looking for trouble. But they were watching closely, that John was certain of. Would any of them try to come to his rescue if something happened? Would it make a difference?

Finch walked with a noted limp, something that was only more curious when he watched Finch turn his entire upper body to look to him, rather than simply turn his neck. John had seen racing injuries like that before.

“I need a driver I can trust. Someone compatible with my driving system,” Finch told him as they walked towards the front entrance of the building.

“And I’m the only one who fit the bill,” John said drily. 

They exited the warehouse and John’s breath caught in his throat as he saw what was waiting in the cold early morning air. Finch held out the keys to the Lamborghini Huracán parked in front of them, casually dangling from them from one finger.

“You can drive me back to the garage. Prove me wrong.”

“I don’t have a license.” John couldn’t take his eyes off the car.

“Then don’t get caught.”

The car glistened in the sunlight and he felt his heart racing, his fingers twitching as the instincts carefully honed for driving took over. Blu Achelous paint on the carbon fiber body, glossy black Iperione rims, which had always reminded John of flower petals, front turn indicator lights and front license plate holder kits. It appeared Mr Finch had elected not to get the carbon fiber engine bonnet, instead allowing the engine to show beneath its transparent cover, though illuminated by a light kit, displaying it as the work of art it was. Muscle memory meant he could feel exactly the way his body would fit behind the wheel, how the pedals would sink beneath the flex of his foot, how his hand would grasp around the stick shift and how his shoulder would pivot to change gears.

The last time he’d been in one had been a year before he’d hit rock bottom, a showroom car in Rosso Mars.

He hesitated to move towards the car, though Finch had already started walking to the passenger side with his halting gait. John looked down at his right hand and saw he’d taken the key without realising it. His fingers were clutched at the key and the aching yearn to drive the car overwhelmed him. As he walked to the driver’s door, he could feel the eyes of the other homeless watching him, wondering what strange and possibly horrible fate was awaiting him.

The seats were upholstered in a modest Terra Antiope leather and he felt guilty that his grimy clothing was going to touch the interior, but he sat down regardless, shuddering at how _right_ it felt to be behind the driver’s wheel once more. The car roared loudly as the engine started; many owners were embarrassed how loud it was, not expecting that the action they’d receive from how obnoxious it was for the neighbors. John had always enjoyed noise and from the nonchalant look on Finch’s face, he clearly felt the same way. He tilted the sun visor down slightly, noting the customisation of the leather to match the interior of the vehicle and with the dawn’s light now blocked from view.

“The computer system has been uploaded to the car, Mr Reese.”

“Is this the interview I never asked for?” he asked, peeling away his filthy, fingerless gloves and throwing them out the still open door onto the faded asphalt.

Finch merely smiled.

“Directions?” John asked, his anxiety starting to fade in the face of a challenge.

“I’ll tell you when to turn.”

John huffed, irritated with how cavalier the other man was for assuming John would want a voice in his ear directing him like on the track, equally relieved at how natural that was for him to just accept it.

It was nagging on John now, the knowledge that he’d seen Finch’s face before, but couldn’t place where from.

Finch would announce ‘left now’, ‘right now’, giving John just enough time to turn before he’d miss the road. John could do this in his sleep—turning the wheel at someone else’s instruction was what he was born to do. There was a good sized stretch of road ahead and John couldn’t spot any oncoming traffic.

“Do you like to drift, Mr Finch?”

Finch didn’t get a chance to answer before John steered the car around the corner in drift that he was able to smoothly navigate before an early morning bus in the opposite lane came their way. The other man inhaled sharply, his right hand bracing itself on the door, but there was no protest, only wide eyes.

John grinned and decided to drift around the next corner as well; as he began to change speed and turn the wheel, the car dropped its lock on the rear wheels before he could select the function.

“This car is anticipating,” he said as they drifted around the next corner, a sudden flare of anger coursing through his veins. “The FIA doesn’t allow for self-driving systems.”

“My system requires a _real_ driver, not a seat warmer.” Finch seemed genuinely offended that John had implied the car was the meant for cheating.

“You made these modifications,” John said, glancing down at the dashboard’s display, which was running through various commands that were utterly foreign to him.

“Naturally.” Finch turned his eyes back to the windshield. “Isn’t it magnificent? The system is self-learning. It’s anticipating _you_ , not the road. Though it could do that if I wanted it to.”

“So why don’t you?”

“What’s the point of _that_?” Finch gave a small huff as John raced through an intersection. “ _Please_ don’t run reds.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

As they headed towards one of the city’s many bridges, Finch requested, “Lose my security, won’t you?”

“My pleasure.” John shifted gears and the car roared, jumping forward and pushing him back into the seat as they began to dart between drivers on an early morning commute.

As the cars following them began to lag behind and get stuck in traffic, it finally dawned on John exactly who Mr Finch was and he felt a clench in his gut.

“Is this how Ingram died?” he asked over the sound of the engine.

Finch continued staring straight ahead, but out of the corner of his eye, John could see the other man had lost all of the earlier bravado at holding the upper hand. “He refused to use the vehicle with Samaritan loaded onto it.”

John couldn’t lie and say that he’d not expected the other man to respond emotionally to such a well known catastrophe within the racing community. It had been the same accident where Finch had been injured, hadn’t it? The data technician who’d ran out onto the track to pull the driver from the burning car?

Fucking Samaritan Racing. Of all the damn teams to want him…

John had a general idea of where the company garage was now and headed in that direction while the other man remained quiet in his own thoughts. Finch finally pulled out of his funk when they were a few blocks away and gave quiet orders for where John needed to direct the car.

He idled outside of the garage door, not pulling in yet, and looked over at the smaller man.

“Are you interested in the job, Mr Reese?” Finch asked, having regained some of his composure.

“Who will be my co-driver?”

Now that hint of a smile returned. “You won’t have one.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“He’s a fiction. An actor hired specifically for the role of pretending to be the other driver.”

“And if he has to drive?”

Finch’s shoulder twitched as though he was trying to shrug. “I take control of the car and make sure we qualify.”

“Why do you need me?”

“I want a driver who compliments the system.” Finch’s hand rest of the dash, fingers curling slightly against the tan leather in affection.

“Samaritan, when I get out of the car, take Mr Finch inside,” John instructed, hoping that the car actually responded to verbal commands and that he wasn’t being a complete idiot for talking to a car’s computer.

The gamble paid off and the blue lights on the controls behind the wheel disappeared to reveal the words:

<<ADMINISTRATOR CONTROL SELECTED>>

John opened the door and stepped out. Before he shut the door, Finch leaned over to look up at him, a position that undoubtably was uncomfortable, but there was now a look of doubt and worry on his face, as though he was second-guessing the bold way he’d been treating John the entire morning.

“It might do you good to have a purpose in your life again, Mr Reese.”

“I didn’t say ‘no’,” John pointed out.

And the former driver couldn’t help the brief smile that crossed his lips.

*****

**Author's Note:**

> +Subscribe for more stories in this series.


End file.
